Читать книгу A Bravo Christmas Wedding - Christine Rimmer - Страница 8

Chapter Two

“It’s a little strange,” Rory said when they sat at the table in the big farm-style kitchen, eating Alva Colgin’s excellent elk stew with piping hot drop biscuits, which Walker had whipped up on the spot. “Staying here, in your house...”

He sipped his beer, the light from the mission-style fixture overhead bringing out auburn lights in his brown hair. “You have complaints?”

She split a biscuit in half. Steam curled up from the center. Those blue eyes of his were trained on her. She thought he seemed a little wary. “Relax,” she told him. “No complaints. And I know I was a bitch before. Sorry. Over it.”

He set down his beer. “Weird, how?”

“It’s just not what we do, that’s all.” She’d always stayed at the Haltersham, Justice Creek’s famous, supposedly haunted luxury hotel built by a local industrialist at the turn of the last century. “You know how we are...”

“How’s that?” He forked up a bite of stew and arched an eyebrow at her.

Annoyance jabbed at her. Seriously? He didn’t know how they were? With a great show of patience, she explained the obvious. “Well, we meet up at Ryan’s bar.” His brother owned and ran McKellan’s, a popular neighborhood-style pub in town on Marmot Drive. “Or we hang out at Clara’s house. Or we head up into the mountains.” They both enjoyed hiking, camping and fishing. So did Clara and Ryan. The four of them had camped out together several times—just four good friends, nothing romantic going on. But now Clara and Ryan were getting married. And Rory was sleeping in Walker’s house. “I’ve been here at the ranch maybe six times total in all the years we’ve known each other—and tonight is the first time I’ve seen the upstairs. Wouldn’t you say that’s a little bit weird?”

He was looking at her strangely. “You really don’t want to stay here. That’s what you’re saying, right? That’s why you’ve been so pissed off about having me handle your security.”

Wonderful. Now she’d succeeded in making everything weirder. She set down half of the biscuit and picked up her butter knife. “No, Walker. That’s not what I’m saying.”

“It’s not what you’re used to, is it? Too far out in the sticks, no room service, iffy internet access.”

“Not true. Wrong. It’s beautiful here. And very comfortable. I promise you, I’m not complaining.”

He went on as though she hadn’t spoken. “I admit it’s just easier for me, if you stay here at the ranch rather than the hotel. But if you want, we can—”

“Will you stop?”

“I want to work this out.”

“There’s nothing to work out. I just said it was a little weird, that’s all. I was only...making conversation.”

“Making conversation.” His mouth had a grim set.

“Yes. I talk. You answer. I answer you back. Conversation. Ring a bell?”

He set down his fork. It made a sharp sound against the side of his plate. “Something is really bugging you. What?”

“Nothing,” she baldly lied. “There’s nothing.”

But of course, there was.

It was the two doors to the bathroom. Because of those two doors, she’d thought about seeing him naked and that was not the kind of thing a girl was supposed to be thinking about her very good friend.

For years, they’d had everything worked out between them—for him, everything was still worked out.

But for her, well...he kind of had it right, though she would never admit it no matter how hard he pushed. She didn’t really want to stay here—and not because it wasn’t a luxury hotel.

Uh-uh. There was just something about staying in his house, something about having him as her bodyguard, something about Ryan and Clara suddenly getting married, something about everything changing from how it had always been. It had her mind going places it shouldn’t go.

It had her heart aching for what it was never going to get.

He sat back in his chair, tipped his head sideways and studied her with a look that set her nerves on edge. “Whatever it is, you need to go ahead and tell me.”

She played dumb. Because no way was she having the I want to jump your bones, but hey, I get that you’re just not that into me conversation. Not tonight. Not ever again. “What are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

Yes, she did. So what now? Truth or lie?

Lie, definitely. “No, really. There’s nothing.” She faked a yawn and hid it behind her hand.

He fell for it. “Tired?”

She lied some more. “Exhausted. It’s—what? One in the morning in Montedoro. I’m just going to finish this amazing stew and go on up to my room...”

“You sure you’re okay?”

“I am. Really. Just a little tired is all.”

And that was it. He let it go.

After the meal, she helped him straighten up the kitchen. Then she went upstairs, had a nice bath and called Clara’s house. Clara wasn’t there, so Rory left a message saying she’d arrived safely after an uneventful flight and would see her in the morning for the final fittings. They were all—bride and bridesmaids—meeting at Wedding Belles Bridal on Central Street at ten.

Rory hung up and climbed into bed. She was certain she would lie there wide-awake for hours stewing over her inappropriate interest in her very good friend Walker. But she turned out the light and snuggled under that old quilt and smiled because the pillowcase smelled like starch and sunshine.

And the next thing she knew, thin winter sunlight was peeking between the white cotton curtains. She sat up and stretched and realized she felt great. Lucky Lady sat at the end of the bed, lazily licking her paw.

Rory beamed at the big black cat. All those weird emotional knots she’d tied herself up in the night before? Untied.

Honestly, if she still had a little bit of a crush on Walker, so what? She didn’t have to get all eaten up over it. It just wasn’t that big a deal.

* * *

Walker drove her into town. He found a parking space right on Central Street in front of Wedding Belles, under a streetlamp all done up for the holidays with an evergreen wreath covered in bright colored Christmas ornaments and crowned with a red bow.

Rory unhooked her seat belt. “I’ll call you when we leave the shop.”

He didn’t fall for it. “I’ll see you inside.” He went to feed the meter.

Still hoping that maybe he’d give up and go hang with Ryan or something for a while, Rory entered the shop.

Wedding Belles was everything the name implied. Big, beautiful dresses in a delicious rainbow of colors hung on racks along the walls. More dresses tempted the buyer from freestanding displays. It was a truly girlie kind of place, and the final fitting was just supposed to be Clara and her attendants.

Best man not included.

Walker came in anyway. He assumed the bodyguard position, out of the way, near the door.

Clara was already there. She stood in the center of the shop, all in white, on a round white fitting platform in front of a silver-trimmed cheval mirror, her brown hair loose on her shoulders. She had her head tipped down at first, a pensive expression on her pretty face. Her dress was a gorgeous thing, with a layered organza skirt, three-quarter length lace sleeves and a fitted lace-and-beadwork bodice. Clara looked adorable in it. Another woman, probably the shop’s owner, was busy fussing with the layers of fluffy organza hem.

As always, Rory had a camera with her. She whipped it out and snapped a few quick shots of the bride, who seemed lost in a world of her own, and the seamstress kneeling at her feet.

Clara looked up, her faraway expression vanishing as if it had never been. She beamed and held out her arms. “Rory!” The other woman stepped aside so Clara could hike up those acres of skirt and jump down from the platform for a hello hug.

Rory stuck her camera back in her tote and ran over to wrap her arms around her favorite cousin, who smelled of a light, flowery perfume—with just a hint of coffee and pancakes. Clara must have been at her restaurant, the Library Café, already that morning. “God,” Rory said. “It’s so good to see you.” They grinned at each other.

Clara kissed her on the cheek and jumped back up on the platform. “This is Millie. She owns the place. Millie, my cousin Rory.”

“Hey,” said Rory. “We’ve met. Sort of.” She’d talked to Millie on the phone a couple of times, giving the shopkeeper her size and measurements so her dress could be made up and ready for today.

The woman dipped a knee in a fair approximation of a curtsy. “Your Highness. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you in person. It’s an honor.”

Clara laughed. “Just call her Rory. She gets cranky when people treat her like a princess.”

Millie gave Rory a questioning look.

And Rory said, “That’s right. Just Rory.”

“Fair enough. Rory.” The shop owner straightened her pincushion bracelet and knelt again at Clara’s hem.

Clara was watching Walker, who remained by the door. “I hate to break it to you, Walker. But this is a no-groomsmen-allowed kind of thing we’re doing here.”

He shrugged—and didn’t budge. “You look beautiful, Clara. My brother’s a lucky man.”

“Thanks. You can go.”

“Sorry. Can’t do that. Pretend I’m not here.” He stared out the window—on the lookout for kidnappers, no doubt.

Clara muttered to Rory, “What is going on with him?”

Rory grumbled, “My mother hired him to be my bodyguard for this trip.”

Clara blinked. “No kidding.”

Rory shook her head. “And as you can see, so far, he’s taking his new job very seriously.”

“I guess I should have noticed that you’re minus security.”

“Oh, but I’m not. I’ve got security. And his name is Walker. I’m staying out at the Bar-N, so he can protect me even when I’m sleeping.” She gestured grandly toward the man in question. “Wherever I go, Walker goes.”

“Hmm.” Clara’s green eyes gleamed and she pitched her voice even lower. “This could get interesting...”

“Don’t even go there,” Rory threatened. Clara knew too much. She was Rory’s favorite cousin, after all. And a couple of times over the years Rory had just happened to mention that she had a sort of a thing for Walker. She really wished she’d kept her mouth shut—but both times there had been wine involved, and girls will be girls.

Clara flashed her a way-too-innocent smile. “Don’t go where, exactly?”

Right then, the little bell over the door chimed, distracting Clara, so that Rory didn’t have to answer any more of her annoying Walker-related questions. Elise Bravo and Tracy Winham breezed in.

Elise was Clara’s sister and Tracy might as well have been. When Tracy’s parents died fifteen years ago, Elise and Clara’s mother, Sondra, took Tracy into the family and raised her as a daughter. Together, Tracy and Elise owned Bravo Catering. The two were not only in the wedding party, they were handling the reception and providing all the food. They waved at Walker and hurried over to grab Rory in hugs of welcome.

The first thing out of Elise’s mouth after “How are you?” was “Is there some reason Walker’s lurking by the door?”

And Rory got to explain all over again about the bodyguard situation.

Then Joanna Bravo, Clara and Elise’s half sister, arrived. Things started getting a little frosty about then.

Joanna hugged Rory, kissed Clara on the cheek and then said crisply, “Elise. Tracy.” She gave them each a quick nod that seemed more a dismissal than a greeting.

And Elise said, “Clara, we really need to revisit the issue of the reception centerpieces.”

Joanna, whom they all called Jody, spoke right up. “No, we don’t.”

Tracy popped in with, “Yes, we do.”

Clara said softly, “Come on. We’ve been through this. Let’s not go there again.”

That shut the argument down momentarily.

But Rory knew they would definitely be going there again. If it hadn’t been about the flowers, it would have been something else, because the Justice Creek Bravos shared a convoluted history.

Clara’s father, Franklin Bravo, had raised two families at the same time: one with his heiress wife, Sondra Oldfield Bravo, and a second with his mistress, Willow Mooney. All nine of his children—four by Sondra, five by Willow—had the last name Bravo.

When Sondra died, ten years ago, Frank Bravo had mourned at her funeral. And then, the next day, he’d married Willow and moved her and her two youngest children, Jody and Nell, into the family mansion, where Elise and Tracy still lived. Three years ago, Frank had died of a stroke. By then, there was only Willow, living alone in the big house that Frank had built with Oldfield money when he first made Sondra his bride.

Frank’s five sons and four daughters by two different mothers were all adults now, all out on their own. Clara had told Rory more than once that they’d given up their childhood jealousies and resentments. Clara always saw the best in people and tried to think positive.

But maybe she should have thought twice before hiring Jody to do the flowers for the wedding—and Tracy and Elise to cater it.

As the caterers, Tracy and Elise thought they should be in charge of the reception flowers and should be answerable only to the bride. “We just want to be free to coordinate the look of your reception without having to check with Jody every minute and a half,” groused Elise.

“We’ve already settled this.” Jody pinched up her mouth and aimed her chin high. “I’m doing the flowers. All the flowers. It’s as simple as that. And I will make sure that you get exactly what you want, Clara.”

Rory moved around the edges of the room, snapping a bunch of pictures of them as they argued, feeling grateful for her camera, which gave her something to do so she could pretend to ignore the building animosity.

Tracy started in, “But the reception needs a consistent design. Elise and I really should be freed up to give that to you.”

Clara pleaded, “Come on, guys. You all need to work together. Jody’s doing the flowers. We’ve talked about this before and we’ve all discussed what I’m after.” She glanced from a frowning Tracy to an unhappy Elise to a smug Joanna. “Jody will come up with something that works with your table design. I know it’s all going to be just what I’ve hoped for.”

Elise opened her mouth to give Clara more grief. But before she could get rolling, Nell Bravo, Willow’s youngest, arrived.

Nell was one of those women who cause accidents just by walking down the street. She looked like a cross between the sultry singer Lana Del Rey and a Victoria’s Secret model. Her long auburn hair was wonderfully windblown, her full lips painted fire-engine red and her enormous dark green eyes low and lazy. She wore a hot-pink angora sweater. Black leggings hugged her endless, shapely legs. The leggings ended in a pair of Carvela Scorpion biker boots.

Instead of harping at Clara again, Elise turned to the newcomer. “Nell. How nice that you finally decided to join us.”

Nell’s pillowy red upper lip twitched in a lazy sneer. “Don’t start, Elise. I’m not putting up with your crap this morning.” Nell glanced Rory’s way and actually smiled. “Rory. Hey.”

Rory peeled her camera off her face long enough to give Nell a hug. “Good to see you.”

“Nellie, you look half-awake,” Tracy remarked in full snark mode. “Have you been taking advantage of our permissive marijuana laws again?”

Nell smoothed her gorgeous hair with one languid stroke of her red-nailed hand. “It’s a thought. I really should do something to relax when I know I’m going to have to put up with you and your evil twin here.”

Elise sniffed. “Don’t let her bother you, Trace. She was just born rude—and then badly brought up.”

Nell covered a yawn. “Better rude and runnin’ wild than the biggest bee-yatch in town.”

Tracy and Elise gasped in outraged unison.

Rory had stopped taking pictures. Her gaze tracked toward the door and collided with Walker’s. He was looking as worried as she felt. Elise and Tracy had been ganging up on Nell for as long as Rory could remember. And Nell had no trouble at all fighting back. The only question now was, how far would they go today? When they were teenagers, according to more than one source, the three of them used to go at it no-holds-barred, with lots of slapping and hair-pulling.

Poor Clara had begun to look frazzled. She patted the air with both hands. “Seriously, everyone. Could we all just take a deep breath—and will you put on the dresses so Millie can pin the hems and mark up any final alterations?”

Nell purposely turned her back on Tracy and Elise—and they did the same to her. Rory breathed a small sigh of relief. Nell said, “Millie, do I smell coffee? I would kill for a cup.”

“Help yourself,” said Millie. She had a table set up in the corner with a silver coffee service, cups, cream, sugar, everything—including a plate of tempting-looking muffins from the baker across the street.

“I love you,” Nell told Millie in her husky bedroom voice as she filled one of the cups. Jody, who hadn’t said a word since Nell entered the shop, had already poured herself a cup and taken a seat near the wall.

Clara tried again, “Put on your dresses, everyone, please. Millie’s hung them in the dressing rooms.” Millie had three dressing rooms. Clara pointed at the center one. “Rory, you’re in there with me. Elise and Tracy on the left. Jody and Nell to the right.” Assigning the dressing rooms was a smart move on Clara’s part. It was one thing to try to pretend that her battling sisters had no issues with each other. But God knew what might happen if Nell ended up alone in a confined space with Tracy or Elise.

They went to their assigned rooms and put on their bridesmaids dresses, which were each a different style, but all floor-length and in a vivid eggplant-colored satin. Then they drank coffee and nibbled on muffins while taking turns getting up on the platform so that Millie could pin up the final alterations.

The process took until a little past noon. A few sharp remarks were tossed around. But on the whole, they all managed to behave themselves. By the end, Clara almost seemed relaxed.

After the fitting, Clara had lunch reservations for all of them at the Sylvan Inn. Everybody loved to eat at the inn. They had fabulous hammer steaks and wonderful crispy fried trout. The inn was a few minutes’ drive southwest of town. Tracy and Elise said they would go together. Clara offered to drive everyone else.

Rory made a stab at getting Walker to allow her to go to lunch on her own.

He said, “Let Jody and Nell go together. I’ll drive you and Clara. That way, if Jody or Nell gets into it with Elise and Tracy, there are viable escape options.”

“Walker. You make it sound like a battle plan.”

He grunted. “Because it is. More or less.”

She wanted to argue that everything would be fine and he really didn’t have to keep her in sight every minute of every day. But actually, knowing the Bravo sisters, it might not all be fine. And he seemed so determined to watch over her. It really was kind of sweet that he took the job of providing her security so seriously.

So she went back to her cousins and shared Walker’s suggestion as to who should ride with whom—minus the part about battle plans and escape options. They all agreed Walker’s way would be fine.

In Walker’s SUV, Rory sat in the front seat next to him and Clara hopped in back. Once they were on the way, Clara said she wanted him to join them for lunch when they got to the inn.

He laughed. He really did have the greatest laugh, all deep and rough and sincere at the same time. “You’d probably make me sit between Nell and Elise.”

And Rory kidded, “Well, you might as well make yourself useful. You can play referee.”

“Not a chance. I’ll just stay out of the way. You won’t even know I’m there.”

“Of course we’ll know.” Clara reached over the seat and poked at his shoulder.

Rory tried, “And it doesn’t seem right for you not even to get some lunch in this deal.”

But he just wouldn’t go for it. “I’ll get something later. Don’t worry about me.”

So she and Clara let it be.

At the inn, Walker had a private word with the hostess—no doubt to explain why he would be lurking and not eating. Then he took up a position near a window painted with a snowy Christmas scene. The spot was out of the way of the waiters and busmen, but with a clear line of sight to the table where Rory sat with her cousins. By then, they all knew that Walker was her stand-in bodyguard. Nell teased her about it and they both laughed.

Christmas favorites played softly in the background, and Clara had a bottle of champagne waiting on ice for them. It was nice. Festive. They each took a glass of bubbly, and Clara made a sweet little toast. She took a tiny sip and set the flute down and never touched it again. They ordered.

At first, it all seemed to go pretty well. At least everyone was civil. But then, shortly after the waitress brought their food, Tracy started in again about how she and Elise ought to be doing the reception flowers.

Jody said, “Oh, come on, Tracy. Give it up, already. It’s been decided.”

Elise scoffed, “That’s what you think.”

And then Nell said to no one in particular, “Because some people just can’t stand not getting everything their way all of the time.”

Tracy snapped, “Stay out of it, Nell. This has nothing to do with you.”

“Come on, guys,” Clara piped up hopefully. “Let it go. Let’s have a nice lunch as a family. Please.”

“Yeah, Clara.” Nell mimed an eye roll so big, she almost fell over sideways. “Good luck with that.”

“I’m not kidding,” Elise muttered under her breath. “So freaking rude.”

To which Nell replied with saccharine sweetness, “And what about you, Leesie? You’re just a big ole plate of harpy with an extra-large helping of shrew on the side.”

Elise glowered, teeth clenched. “Why you little—”

Clara cut her off. “Stop. This. Now.” She sent a furious glare around the table. Clara never lost her temper, so to see her about ready to start kicking some sisterly butt shocked the rest of them so much they all fell silent.

Walker left his position by the window and started toward them, ready to intervene. Rory met his eyes and shook her head. There was nothing for him to do in this situation. Nothing for either of them to do, really.

He took her hint and went back to his observation point at the window.

And Clara’s angry outburst actually seemed to have worked. They’d all picked up their forks and started eating again. Everyone but Clara. She sat there with her hands in her lap, sweat on her brow, her cheeks and lips much too pale.

Rory leaned close to her. “Are you all right?”

Clara gulped and nodded. “Fine, yes. Just fine...”

Clearly a complete lie. But Rory let it go. She feared that keeping after her might push her over whatever edge she seemed to be teetering on.

So they ate, mostly in silence. It was pretty awful. So bad that no one wanted anything off the famous Sylvan Inn dessert cart when the waitress wheeled it over. Tracy and Elise were the first to say they had to get going. They thanked Clara and left. Jody and Nell followed about two minutes later.

As soon as her two half sisters disappeared down the short hallway to the door, Clara shoved back her chair and leaped to her feet. “Be right back,” she squeaked. And then she clapped her hand over her mouth and sprinted toward the alcove that led to the restrooms.

For a moment, Rory just sat there gaping after her. Normally, Clara was hard to rattle. She took things in stride.

But she was certainly rattled now. And obviously about to toss what little she’d eaten of her hammer steak and cheesy potatoes.

Rory jumped up and went after her.

In the ladies’ room, she found poor Clara bending over one of the toilets, the stall door left open in her rush to make it in time. She was already heaving.

“Oh, darling...” Rory edged into the best-friend position, gathering Clara’s hair in her hands and holding it out of the way as everything came up.

Clara was still gagging, Rory rubbing her back and making soothing noises, when the outer door burst open. “Rory?” It was Walker.

Between heaves, Clara shouted, “Walker, out!”

Rory locked eyes with him. “I’m fine. Go.”

“I’ll be right out here if you—”

“Walker, go!” Clara choked out. He backed away.

“And don’t let anyone in here,” Rory added.

“Uh. Sure,” he said, ducking out, the door shutting after him.

“It’s all right, all right,” Rory reassured Clara gently. “He’s gone. It’s just us...”

Clara heaved a couple more times and then stayed bent over the bowl, breathing carefully as they waited to see if there would be more.

Finally, Clara let out a slow, tired sigh. “I think that’s it.”

Rory hit the flush. They backed from the stall and turned to the big mirror over the two sinks. Clara rinsed her mouth and her face. Rory was ready with the paper towels. Clara took them and blotted her cheeks. They’d left their purses at the table, so Clara smoothed her hair as best she could.

And then they ended up just standing there, staring into each other’s eyes in the mirror.

Finally, Rory asked in a whisper, “Clara, what is going on?”

And Clara gave a tiny, sad little shrug. “I’m pregnant. Four months along.”

Rory choked. “No...”

“Yeah.”

“Shut the fridge door.” Rory had already kind of figured it out. But it was still a surprise to hear Clara say it.

A weary little chuckle escaped Clara. “I haven’t had morning sickness in a month. But today was too much.” She pressed her hand against her belly, which was maybe slightly rounded, but only if you stared really hard. And even then, maybe not. “I might have to kill my sisters—all three of them. And Tracy, too.”

Rory was still trying to get her mind around this startling bit of information. Clara. Pregnant. “So you actually had sex with Ryan?” The words just popped from her mouth of their own accord. She really hadn’t meant to say them out loud. Clara winced and then looked stricken. And Rory felt so bad she started backpedaling like mad. “Well, I mean it’s only that you always said you didn’t see Ryan that way—but then, hey, what the hell?” She bopped her own forehead with the heel of her hand. “I mean, nobody can deny Ryan is hot. And you two are getting married, right? I mean, there’s nothing to be surprised about, because even if there hadn’t been a baby involved, you two would have had sex or be planning to have it. Because, well, sex is one of those things married people tend to do and—”

“Rory,” Clara cut in softly.

Rory gulped. “Uh. Yeah?”

“You’re just making it worse.”

Rory let out a small whimper. “You’re right. I am.”

“Come here.” Clara wrapped her arm around Rory’s shoulders and drew her closer. Rory slid her hand around Clara’s waist. They bent their heads to the side until they touched and they stared at each other in the mirror some more, both of them looking a little bit shell-shocked.

Finally, Rory said, “Four months? Seriously? You don’t even look pregnant.”

“I know.” Clara did the pregnant-lady move, lovingly pressing her palm to her belly for the second time. “Not showing yet. I’ll probably be like my mother. She once told me she would go for six months with nobody knowing. And then, all of a sudden...” Clara stretched her arm out in front of her. “Pop. Out to here. Like from one day to the next.”

“God, Clara. Four months? Since August?”

Clara dropped her hand from Rory’s shoulder, eased away and dampened a paper towel under the faucet. “Well, I didn’t know until about five weeks later when I took the first test.”

Rory couldn’t help looking at her reproachfully. “You should have called me. You should have told me. I mean, who have you told?”

Clara blotted her flushed face with the wet towel. “Ryan.”

“Only Ryan?”

Clara tossed the wet towel in the trash. “And he has been wonderful. Right there for me, you know? Best friend a girl could have.”

Best friend. Clara still talked about Ryan as a friend, a best buddy. She just didn’t sound like a woman in love.

Rory turned so she was face-to-face with Clara and took her firmly by the shoulders. “Is everything all right, with you and Ryan?”

“Of course. It’s wonderful. Couldn’t be better.”

“And the baby?”

Clara sighed. “No worries. Truly. The baby’s fine. I’ve been to the doctor. Clean bill of health.”

“Oh, my darling...” Rory gathered her close. Clara let out a little whimper and grabbed on. Tight. Rory murmured, “I’m here—you know that...” She rubbed Clara’s back and stared at the row of toilet stalls without really seeing them.

Until she happened to catch a flicker of movement from the corner of her eye. One of the stall doors was closed. And the movement had occurred in that tiny sliver of space between the door and frame.

Rory paid attention then, her gaze tracking lower, to the opening between the bottom of the door and the black-and-white tile floor. No shoes or legs showing.

But then, there it was again: a shadow moving between the frame and the door.

Someone was standing on the stool, listening in.